


Last Quarter

by Spylace



Category: Strike Back
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Destiny Diverted, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien Scott is a werewolf.</p><p>Michael Stonebridge fails to be impressed.</p><p>And the series takes a step sideways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost because the last story wasn't going the way I wanted it to. And maybe this time I'll update more? Apologies for any inconveniences...
> 
> AKA that alternate universe Damien Scott is a werewolf and possibly saves everyone.

Damien Scott is dishonorably discharged for possession of narcotics one sunny afternoon in 2004. He will always remember everyone’s faces; he will recall all of their scents. No amount of jail time will cure it, even if it is a glorified pen. He will never forget the prosecution and the jury, the stink of greased palms and human greed. They should have killed him when they had the chance.

He will remember the droning bee across the window screen and the absence of noise when he is told that his entire pack had been killed, slaughtered in action and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

Soon after, he is picked up by the CIA. Disillusioned soldiers of his caliber are high in demand. He even welcomes it, wanting to get out before he’s bought by something worse.

For a while, he doesn’t mind. Christy keeps a tight leash on him, holds even him tighter between her legs. It’s nice having a steady lay that isn’t his hand or Chan when he can be persuaded to roll over for a bit of frottage.

Then the worst happens and he takes to globetrotting like his forefathers, in search of a better home. He fits in the crowded markets of Mumbai, the redlight districts of Bangkok and the seaside resorts of Buenos Aires where he fucks away his evenings for keeps. He abandons the Company and can never stop running. Stopping is what got him in the mess in the first place.

Damien cuts off contact with everyone, Christy, Porter, Uncle Sam. He becomes a ghost among ghosts and becomes the hunted. He survives in the steppes of Iran for months before thinking about walking out, only because someone’s started bombing a nearby village and he remembers thinking what it might have felt to die alongside his pack.

But he doesn’t die, at least not in the conventional manner. When the little boys in camo sees him at night, they think he’s a fucking hajji and starts flinging bullets his way to see which one sticks. They miss, thank fuck, but spends a week scouring the hillside for his remains. Inadvertently, he saves an entire village and slips away into the Pakistani border.

In the weeks that follow, he regains semblance of human behavior, bit by bit, learning to use words instead of grunts, his third grade teacher would have been so fucking proud. Forks and knives are hard at first but most of the civilized world in his eyes doesn’t use them anyway. Never let it be said that the spork isn’t the ultimate utensil.

Damien even manages a call to Porter though he only grabs the answering machine. He keeps it short. He keeps it sweet. He’s sorry he’s missed Christmas, New Years, Diane’s birthday and whatever unnatural holidays limeys celebrate. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t been laid in a couple of months and he’s going to fix that right away.

He’s okay.

He can’t recall exactly how he met Porter. Only that he did and picked a fight right after, the others holding him back because of a couple of bars on the other man’s sleeves and the guns pointed right in his face. Brits think they’re rabid and even worse, they’re Americans. But this goes beyond simple rivalries, it’s written in their bones.

The British expatriated their own wolves and hasn’t looked back ever since. Any strays that crop up per generation are quickly dumped like a bag of kittens, the story of his life. But it turns out somebody did want him and that’s his pack. And there was no one that was going to fuck with them while he was still around.

“Fuck you man!” He shouts and checks himself at the very last minute by sheathing his fangs. “You have a lot of nerve buddy. You’ve got a problem with me, bring me up on charges but _do not_ fuck with my men.”

He’s practically expecting a kill order from the British military. What he gets is Porter after a liberal splash of liquid courage. Damien waves him in quickly. Pack or not, booze is a valuable commodity and hell if he was going to share with those ungrateful bastards.

“I’ve come to apologize.” Porter starts. “You were right. I had no right to presume.”

“You’d be the first.” Damine snorts. He’s already had a good chewing out from his superiors _and_ his pack. He shrugs, an easy roll of the shoulder that has him popping a joint. Porter flinches. “We’re soldiers, kind of the point.”

“I take care of my men.” Porter says sharply and Damien raises his cup. “And yet.”

Four-fifths of the way through the bottle and they’ve already swapped stories about their best and their worst, how this war was going nowhere.

“No seriously, a yoga instructor, had the nicest set of titties.”

Porter looks dubiously at his chest and the generous mat of hair. Damien concludes wistfully, “and it was worth it.”

Porter rolls his eyes good-naturedly when he slurs that he’s going to get the very last drop from the bottle, even if it means taking forever to fill their tin cups. The other man mutters that he’s a disgrace to wolves everywhere and Damien grins, loose-limbed like he’s had a good fuck.

“Give me that.”

“Just one second.”

They grapple. Porter puts him in a headlock and Damien gives the bulging forearms an experimental lick. He gets a wet-willy in his ear and it’s like he’s a pup again, all fur and gangly limbs, covered in dirt, knowing his mother would chew him out and dunk him in a bath.

They’re too drunk to really get going. Damien ends up on his stomach, Porter on top.

“Truce?”

“Truce” He agrees sleepily.

 

2010 is the last time Damien sees Porter alive.

“Back in the Company’s good graces I see.”

Porter helps him with the water, like the upstanding Brit that he is. He should be glad that it’s this and not a fist that he was expecting.

“How can you tell?”

“Ngh” He groans weakly, rolling over. The hospital gown is scratchy and leaves his entire backside bare. He sees that his right leg is in a cast, his left in a brace and hurts like a motherfucker when he tries to put some weight on it. Porter pushes him back, swears that if he didn’t look so pitiful, he would have let Diane have him.

“You smell good buddy,” He sighs, pushing the button for more morphine. “Definitely less eau de celibacy, Diane’s been putting out.”

Porter looks mortified.

 

They try to keep in touch but ultimately can’t. MI6 needs Porter more than he does, his family needs him more. Only a call once a month to anchor him, he drifts and ends up cage fighting in the pits of Kuala Lumpur.

It’s never something he’s ever aspired to. It’s not something one writes in his fifth grade yearbook—will fight illegal death matches for a living.

It pays the bills, it gets him good pussy. But when he sees an unfamiliar face in the crowd, blonde hair, chiseled jawline, he knows it’s time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

He finds Scott living out of a whorehouse in Kuala Lumpur. The location is surprising and at the same time, completely predictable. It’s the only place where transactions are dealt purely in cash, drugs and bodies.

Wanted in at least five different countries, Damien Scott has the practical look of a man on the run. He has nothing valuable on his person, nothing to identify him by, no tattoo or scars visible when he dons his excruciatingly touristic shirts.

He looks like a fighter gone to seed, a horse put out to pasture and maybe he is. Michael doesn’t know why they need him; he’s a wolf, just another dumb dog. They could have had Hansen for that. Damien Scott wasn’t anything special.

But there was something incredibly reassuring about an incompetent dog, one who’s so down on his luck that he’d fight in cages for a quick buck. His opponent is Russian, big, moves like he means it. It isn’t long before there are snarling dogs inside the ring and something clenches deep inside his gut despite the heat he’s packing. It feels like someone’s slipped him an ice cube down his back.

The Russian is typical of the northern breeds, ash blonde with stripes of grey and black thrown in. He’s got Scott by the face and he doesn’t like how this fight is going. Michael is torn. If he interferes, it proves that Scott isn’t the man they’re looking for. If he doesn’t, there might be more than blood on the ground tonight. A break is called and Scott is pulled away, his face soaked with blood.

The wolf stares right at him and deliberately throws him a wink.

When the fight resumes, Scott swings low and bites down on an ankle. The Russian goes down with an audible snap, hatred bright in his eyes as he hobbles on threes. Scott dances out of the way, teeth glistening with freshly spilt blood. He knows now that the Russian has tried to kill him tonight. Someone in the audience has grown bored of his victories, doesn’t want another win.

He probably knows that this night is his last.

People groan as the second leg goes, the carefully choreographed moves forgotten in this new ring. The Russian moves slowly, ears pressed flat, knowing death is in the gleam of Scott’s fangs. Everyone waits for the killing blow.

There isn’t one. As a parting fuck you to his sponsors, Scott trips the Russian and leaves. No one cheers.

 

Scott is in a hurry, barely notices him before entering the room with a stunted growl. It’s another point in his favor if he’s being honest; Michael is less likely to have to worry about prying a set of teeth from his groin if his opponent is even worse dog than he originally thought. He holds his hands up when the hostility doesn’t fade. Michael remembers basic and Hansen back when they were in the field together.

He starts a little at the name before his face stretches out into a leer like he and common decency aren’t even passing acquaintances anymore.

“What’s in it for me?”

Scott’s eyes are blue, unusual among American wolves who normally favor dark honey or amber gold. A tiny slip of a thing wanders in while he’s talking and all but glues herself to Scott’s side, glaring at Michael as though everything is his fault.

“Porter was your mate.”

“He was.” And there is enough warning in his tone to keep him mum. But they need Scott. John Porter needs Scott and unfortunately, so does Section 20. Michael clenches his jaw and rattles off a number big enough to keep the other man interested.

Scott smirks as though he can see right through him. He shrugs off the girl and grabs his sports bag, pulling him towards a window where a truck sits idle alongside men holding guns.

It’s the start of a beautiful friendship.

Once they get back, everyone walks around them like eddies in a pond, like he’s hauled in something rabid and dangerous even when intellectually, they all know there are dogs, never a lot, at most a handful a generation, serving in the British military.

Scott has the emotional sensitivity of a teaspoon and ignores it like a champ when a sandwich is placed in front of him, thick crust, cold cuts with lukewarm coffee to wash it all down.

Grant, though she asked for him, is even less impressed than he was when she sees Damien Scott in the flesh.

Michael suddenly has the strangest want for a rolled up newspaper which is odd because he never liked dogs never mind army wolves. But he still wants to slap the back of Scott’s head when he slumps in a lazy sprawl like the stiff plastic chairs they keep in the crib are the most comfortable things since memory foam.

He spins around like a little kid, eyes tracking every movement like a kid with too much sugar in him. Kate shoots down the atrocious attempts at flirting and Scott zones in immediately a little like he’s in love. It makes him bristle and he stomps off to file his report.

When Porter dies, he doesn’t see Scott’s reaction. The next day, a mild hangover in hand, he comes back from his jog to hear laughter in the kitchen. It’s Scott, telling Kerry whatever cut-and-dried, extremely classified, age-inappropriate story he can share from his bag of tricks.

He looks up guilty as a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar but at attention when he fills the doorway, looming and exuding enough anger that even Kerry is taken aback as she meekly offers breakfast. Michael hauls him off by his collar, the way he’s been taught to manage dogs, before slamming hard against a wall. The sound reverberates throughout the house and Scott laughs after, little staccato of his breath belying how he really thinks of him.

Scott doesn’t seem bothered and grins, his crooked teeth seemingly sharp as knives in the grey light. It makes him a little afraid and a bit angry that he’s thought of it at all. He shoves harder when he remembers dogs and their incredible sense of smell. Michael wonders how much the other man knows, how much he’s guessed when Damien tilts back, willingly bearing his throat.

Surprised, he lets go.

“You done now tough guy?” Scott smirks, leaning forward. He dangles a flash drive in front of his eyes before he does anything he would regret. “C’mon, got something to show you.”

 

It’s obvious that Scott’s smart once they go over the message, too smart to be left off the leash. The other man grins brightly when the meeting adjourns and there is a glint in his eyes that desert dogs get right before they go for someone’s throat.

Michael steels himself at the memory and Scott backs off easy, unruffled, like he’s meant to do it all along. It’s fairly obvious that he’s unimpressed at the gravity of the situation but agrees to the terms and conditions of his newest contract with good humor.

Like a good little dog, he falls in line. But Michael’s seen loners before, knows that they’re some of the most dangerous predators on Earth. He’ll keep an eye on Scott, for now.


	3. Chapter 3

New Delhi at the height of the summer is a gorgeous little place, hot, crowded, filled with noise and smells that he really wishes he could forget. Just the way he left it back in ’07, trying to fly under the radar when every operative with a chip on their shoulder had been joneseying to tag him.

Beside him, Michael grabs the side of the rickshaw as though his life depends on it, suffering from a terminal case Marco Rubio Syndrome. He doesn’t know what the other man has against weres, can’t even guess except he already did.

After John, he knows that the UKSF discourages from wolves from joining. In the entire history of the British military, there have only been a dozen working dogs, mainly civilian attaches or imports from neighboring countries.

Werewolf population in Britain has never particularly been robust. Just because they’ve recently taken off the rewards on their heads doesn’t mean someone won’t accidently shoot them.

Translation: no one’s going to blink if he catches a bullet with his face.

In hindsight, he should have known it was too easy. The first glimpse of Latif in nearly ten years and he was alone in a hotel full of hostages and hostiles, no way out with Mike practically itching for an excuse to put him down. His only saving grace is that he knows what Latif looks like. What Section 20 doesn’t know is that it is a lie.

Their mission is fucked six ways to Sunday. There is a point when he seriously considers assuming his wolf form, provided that the little girl won’t scream and alert the entire building. But it’s a stupid idea, nothing is worth prehensile thumbs. And he likes guns, he joined the military.

The shrinks at the HQ were going to have a field day with him.

He tosses back a bottle while another one goes to waste, cleaning up the bloody gouges beneath his kneecaps. Damien tells Michael not to bother; it doesn’t hurt, just when he walks. But the explanation seems to go over the Brit’s head as he cinches the belt tight over his thighs. And as though suddenly realizing the vulnerable position he’s in, Michael freezes, the knife snugly wedged against his femoral artery.

“Tell me I can dance again buddy.” Damien jokes, teasing the other man from the sudden epiphany.

Michael recovers, he can see how his throat bobs and the veins stand out against the side of his neck. The predator in him revels at the scent, of course he does, he’s a fucking wolf. It’s practically his specialty to pick out weaknesses in an opposing unit.

But he has to try, for Porter if anything else because this is bigger than him. The people who this to him, they got away with the murder of his pack, with blowing a hole in Porter’s brain. Damien remembers every one of their fucking faces, their smells, the spill of sunlight across their backs and wolves too prim and fucking pretty to have ever touched down at ground zero.

“You kill me; your wife is going to be pissed.”

Michael finally manages a short laugh and it almost feels as though that the other man has forgotten he’s a wolf.

The next twist of the knife chases all thoughts away. Being a wolf means that he can take a lot of damage. But wolf or no, he can die, and maybe that’s why he answers when Michael asks him why.

Damien preens at the backhanded complements because that is the kind of fuckup that he is. In the end, Damien is a good dog, trusted, loyal until he barked one time too many and was dumped on the side of the highway, following the taillights until his legs gave out.

Once upon a time, there was a soldier who wanted to serve his country. There are many stories that start out the same way, not all of them have happy endings.

But John Porter was a good man, the best. Didn’t give up on him when he had, lost all his words and was found wild-eyed with his back broken, the side of his body matted with blood. In the ten weeks he coalesced in the ICU, he visited every day.

He will never forget that, his almost pack.

The belt springs free, only a small trickle of blood flows past his knee.

It feels a lot like a second chance.


	4. Chapter 4

 Their mission goes sideways faster than he can say ‘amen’.

Kate stares at him from the back of the van, a bomb strapped to her stomach with the numbers on the LED coolly counting down backwards from four.

Connolly holds all the cards in his hands, lies to them with a straight face that he can shut it off remotely if only they just let him go.

Already, Scott is shaking his head, pushing him back as though Kate is already dead in his eyes. He can’t hear his words for all the rushing noise in his ears, the growls and stops and the teased out consonants. But none of the meaning is lost—Connolly is _lying_.

Michael loves two women, married one and fucks the other on a regular basis. But that is his folly, his burden to bear. If there is a chance they can save Kate, he will take it.

“Fuck, FUCK!”

A rifle clatters to their feet before the deal is even made. Michael looks up stunned when he sees Scott kicking off his shoes, his bare toes spread across the dirt. He is not the only one who is confused.

“What are you doing?” Connolly demands when Scott takes off his shirt.

The wolf cackles. “Holy shit, she didn’t tell you. Can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Fear is the unknown and he sees Connolly back off, towards the front of the van as though that will somehow save him. Scott’s teeth overlap his lips, his eyes flashing in a way no human’s would during nighttime.

“You diffuse the bomb or we die in a fiery mess together.”

“ _Scott_!” Michael barks, gun trained on both.

“You keep back Mikey and let me do my job.” He nods to Kate. “We’re gonna get you out don’t worry.”

“You’re bluffing.” But Connolly is no longer as confident.

Scott gives him a tight grin. “Neve wasn't an alpha.”

Back then, in Kuala Lumpur, Michael had the advantage of an entire room, a throng of sweaty bodies and a second story railing between him and the ring. This time, Scott is too close as he changes skins, his body suddenly hot like the heated heart of a yule log. He jumps back as though bit and Connolly swallows at the swift transformation. No one told him that Scott was a wolf. No one could have guessed.

His entire face pushes out; jaws hinging open like someone’s wedged a crank between them. Scott blends in perfectly with the violet earth and it’s a little like his worst nightmare come to life. He is caught between Scott and Connolly and worse, he can’t decide which one he wants to shoot more.

Scott barks and it’s a strange sound because he’s never heard wolves vocalize but it’s working, rakes up all the ugly, primitive part of him that wants to do nothing more than to run or bash the wolf’s head in, caught in the icy glare of the Scott’s blue eyes.

He always thought he knew what it was like to be afraid.

Connolly tries to hide, turn back, more afraid of Scott’s teeth than the gun he’s got trained on his chest and Michael wonders, not for the first time, how the man kept the she-wolf in line, if he ever looked at her and wanted to put a bullet between her eyes. He must have thought he knew everything there was to know about wolves.

But Damien Scott was raised an American, Damien Scott is a soldier. Damien does not hesitate when he pounces, hackles raised. Even Kate cannot suppress a short scream.

Michael has seen Damien fight as a dog but that seems like a pale imitation to what he is seeing now. He and the Russian had been evenly matched in size and composition. But next to Connolly, Damien might as well be the Devil himself.

Damien is the man-eater out of every myth and fairy tales. He drives Connolly into the van, beside Kate who twists in her binds to avoid setting the bomb off too early.

With calm he doesn’t feel, Michael orders Connolly to disarm it.

 

They take Connolly alive.

Damien doesn’t turn back when they tell him the mission is complete, when they get back to base in Cape Town. There are wolves in this country but nothing like Damien. Damien sticks out like a sore thumb. If anyone asks, they tell them that he’s a service dog in training and that lets him get away with pilfering food from table tops. It’s much easier to buy a service vest than to explain why a man under your command refuses to shift.

Back in London, the medic who comes to see them is an American, whip-thin, not a single spot or crease in his uniform like he’s walked off a catalogue. He stares at them like they’re all giant idiots and asks where Damien’s pack is. It stings a little that he doesn’t even assume.

“He doesn’t have one.” Kate offers and the man tells them not to bullshit him.

Damien flattens his ears but otherwise doesn’t react as he is poked and prodded, his stomach pinched until he lets out a small belch.

“Any medical history? History of drug abuse?”

He and Kate answers simultaneously, “No” and “We don’t know.”.

“Christ, you’re fucking kidding me.”

Michael starts to get impatient.

“Look tell us what we _can_ do alright?”

The medic purses his lips thinly as though it physically hurts to not address this deficiency. “He doesn’t have any outstanding injuries.” He reports. “Reflexes normal though he’s not responding well to verbal commands. But that could just be him.”

A brief smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“That’s right.”

Kate crosses her arms.

“So what do we do now?”

The medic shrugged. “Keep him calm, keep him quiet. It should resolve itself.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

The other man zipped his bag closed.

“Then you’d better pray that it does.”

 

As a thank you, Michael buys him steak. Rare, because even he thinks it’s too much to expect Damien to cough down cold, bloody meat but the wolf swallows it all down like he doesn’t even taste any of it. 

Damien rolls out his tongue, bubble gum pink and terribly pleased. Richmond takes to scratching him behind the silky peaks of his ears when she thinks no one is looking and it has him wiggling in glee. The Crib is the cleanest it’s ever been since its inception.

Richmond also gets Damien a leash. A bright, neon pink monstrosity that’s supposed to shame the were in to turning back. He could have saved her the effort. If there is one thing Damien enjoys, it’s the fundamental lack of shame. He wags his tail and struts around, becoming a nuisance.

“Are you sure he isn’t having us on?” Sinclair asks in exasperation as he chases Damien off his laptop for the umpteenth time.

In the interim, Grant debriefs them, Damien flicking his tail in simple yes and no. He is quieter in this form though Michael always thought different. He almost misses the crude jokes and invitations for sexual harassment suits.

Grant softens her stance at their report, tells them that she doesn’t want to see their faces for the rest of the week. Damien doesn’t need to be told twice. He spends the next three days sitting beside the pool, leering at girls and pretending he is a perfectly ordinary dog. It isn’t until the third night, between him and Kate and boxes of takeout that he reemerges.

Damien goes to the bathroom and returns the next moment with a too small towel around his waist as though he’d just climbed out of the shower.

“Hey” He greets, hoarse, and slumps into the bed.

“You’re back then?” Michael asks casually, wiping his fingers on napkins.

“Yeah” Damien grunts, determined not to make eye contact. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He still looks feral, twitches like he’s about to jump right out of his skin. Michael swallows when he sees him looking back. “You were fine when I brought you in.” He points out. Damien pins him with a depreciating look. Something he hadn’t seen when he denied the other man Bratton.

He doesn’t like it.

“I didn’t have a bomb strapped to my chest now did I?”

“Will this be a problem?” Kate asks, straight to the point.

Damien rolls on his back, smirking. He crosses his arms behind his head and waves his feet.

“What, having a bomb strapped to my chest? Nah, I’m good.”

Kate clears her throat.

“I wanted to thank you. For saving my life.”  

Damien shuts her down.

“Don’t mention it, ever.”

Kate frowns and Michael frowns with her.

“Look” Damien sighs. “Not to be rude or anything but I’m real tired now so if you guys could...”

“Of course.” Michael nods. “I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

 

“What was that about?” Michael asks as they wait for the elevator.

“Scott knows doesn’t he?” Kate says thoughtfully, crossing her arms.

He ducks his head. “I didn’t tell him.”

Kate shrugs.

“Think Stonebridge. His entire team died in a botched raid involving an IED. His pack died because of a bomb.”

Michael can fill in the lines. He hates dogs and Damien hates bombs. What a pair they make.

Kate stares him hard in the eyes.

“This could be a problem.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I imagine Damien to look like except a little browner and with blue eyes. Pretty isn't he?


	5. Chapter 5

Why do wolves live in packs?

—Because they’re shit at being alone.

There are exceptions. Damien used to mock loners, omegas, the strays. What kind of a loser doesn’t have a pack?

He knows better now, learned by accident and design, his goddamned fault for not shutting the fuck up. Wolves are no good alone but that’s what he is. Maybe that’s the way it should be. 

Their alliance is a joke. It sounds like something out of those computer games Vargas obsessed over whenever they were near a decent computer not appropriated for war effort, sending mails to loved ones, or little things like that.

His is a tentative, fragile thing like something made out of paper and glue. Grant doesn’t trust him, he knows enough not to trust her. He respects her command, fantasizes in the off hours but he never forgets that she got a steady friend of nearly ten years executed on faulty intel.

And with Grant on the rag, he makes no friends in the Crib. Richmond thinks him harmless now that she’s seen his wolf, Sinclair treats with passive derision, Baxter no longer jumps at his approach.

Michael is better about him now but gratitude does that to anybody. Marshal even smiles at him sometimes.

They stroll in, smelling of fresh daisies, literal fucking daisies; yes he knows what daisies smell like, but what the fuck is up with that?

Damien is the last man on Earth to preach the virtues of monogamy, fidelity, Jesus, your dick is not going to fall off, the whole brouhaha but fuck him if this isn’t going to get them all killed. You don’t fraternize within ranks; you don’t do that to your team just like how you don’t eat with the hand that wipes your ass.

Apparently, they didn’t get the memo.

Exactly a week after Cape Town, they’re rolling. Their latest op takes them to Sudan to save the daughter of an arms dealer. In exchange, the said arms dealer will give them his contact with Latif. He also provided ordinances for the bomb tailored for him and Marshal. But that little detail is shunted off to the side, the greater good and all that.

After their deal, the entire ride, he smokes like he’s going off something, hands shaky and his cigarettes snapped in the middle like a bent elbow. He has his headphones on, tuned to a colorful cartoon with equally distracting characters.

This is his new normal, letting terrorists live.

Especially ones who’d strapped a bomb to his fucking chest.

“Yeah Mike?” He asks before Michael can knock his headphones off.

Michael frowns.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“The overwhelming sense of righteousness.” He snickers as the cartoon car runs off the rails. “How’s Kerry?” He nods knowingly when Michael gets tight lipped. “Thought so.”

 

Damien doesn’t even realize that he’s been hit until he goes down, palms pressed hard against his stomach until he almost whites out under the Sudanese sun. Silence drowns out the din of noise as Michael shouts, ordering him to keep his eyes open, there’s a good dog. He manages to get his feet back under him but only just. The stab of a needle in his thigh is a blessing.

“Are you seriously going on?” Sinclair demands, following up on an entire conversation he’s missed while bleeding out.

“We need that intel on Latif.” Mike says and Damien wheezes, “okay”. He tugs at his seat belt. “Let’s all go”. And they collectively push him back against the car seat. He idly thinks that they are never going to get all the blood out from the upholstery.

He lets out a hurt whine. He’s supposed to watch Michael’s back.

Damien doesn’t know when the little box for stupid Brits changed from asshole-cunt-douchebag-threat to friend but Mike’s in there. He can’t let Michael go out alone.

Because no matter how well-trained he is, no matter how desperate Crawford is for his daughter, Michael should never be alone.

He lost track of Porter and look what happened. The silver around his neck is like a slap to his face. He stares at Mike in disbelief. The other man looks away. Only fucking limeys would hand out silver like it was toilet paper.

“Okay, go!”

He feels numb, cold sweat mingling with blood.

It doesn’t take him long to pass out after that.

Damien dreams and dreams and dreams through the morphine, the silver itching around his neck. He growls weakly when someone grabs him, disrupting his memories. Already he’s forgetting the uneven curl of Donnelley’s hair, Chan howling in the moonlight, Ryan and Vargas stalking their quarry through the dark. They are together when the bomb goes off.

He lurches awake.

The nurse is staring down the hallway, puzzled at the sudden burst of commotion. Thank fuck the surgery is over, though if his present state is any indication, they didn’t give him nearly enough of the good stuff.

His head spins, hand reflexively clamping over the hole in his side even though it fucking hurts because the doctors haven’t closed it the entire way. Maybe half if the string dangling from his gut is any indication. He wants to chew it off.

This is just a step above barking maniacally, how embarrassing.

He tears the silver off his throat and feels better.

Damien wonders if he turns now, whether the emptiness of his lost spleen with burst open and he’ll bleed out. _Thumbs_ , dumbass, _thumbs_ , he thinks to himself and stumble into a drug cabinet all neatly labeled in what he swears is fucking Chinese.

The nurse tries to help, before she spies the silver looped around his fingers. After that, she mostly directs, nervously telling him which is adrenaline and which will drop him on the spot.

Grant, when he calls her, is surprised that he’s still alive. He tells her about Hendriks, the bird he saw sitting outside, and will wonders never cease? A dog who can play fetch. By the time Marshal finds him hiding in a bathroom stall, he’s more dead than alive.

But it was for a good cause.

Michael’s alive.

He swears to god he’s going to chew the face off of the fucking son of a bitch who keeps laying silver on him.

They have to fly him out. There’s not enough wolf blood, if any, at the hospital and their position is not secure. The medic riding with them tells him he’s a fucking idiot for mixing no blood with adrenaline but recoil in fear when he shows some teeth.

Wolves are allergic to silver and the inability to shift is its most benign effect. Get enough on him and that’s when things get interesting. He’s pretty sure, he’s going into shock.

Someone stabs his neck with a needle. He fucking hopes it’s cortisone. But when he reopens his eyes, he’s staring into fangs the size of modest steak knives. There’s a blond blur attached to its neck, trying to hold it off and he closes his eyes again because he’s hallucinating.

“Who’s this?”

There is a wolf in his room, staring him right in the eye like he’s trespassing. Damien sits up quickly, feeling the stitches pull hard on his side. Emergency splenectomy was nothing to sneeze at. He was incredibly lucky and wasn’t about to be taken out by a strange dog.

“Hey easy, we’re not going to hurt you.”

“Speak for yourself; he is not supposed to be here.”

“He’s obviously hurt.” The first one, a man with a trace New York accent says emphatically to the wolf and the Russian, a red haired woman who looks like a wet dream from a playboy centerfold. She’s a knockout, clear, oval face, a pert nose, and sparkling blue eyes just on the yay shade of opaque that makes them pop out. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have said she was beautiful. But he does, so he doesn’t insult her by saying it.

“Where have you been all my life?” Damien asks, awed.

“Hmph.”

The man clears his throat.

“Stefan Rogachyov, and you are?”

“Damien Scott.”

“Scott,” Rogachyov seems genuinely puzzled. “Any idea what you’re doing here?”

“Obvious,” Damien replies, settling back into his pillow. The wolf growls in warning and the other man flicks him on the nose. “Enjoying the British hospitality.”

There are answering snorts from all around the room.

“You?”

Rogachyov’s grin is frightening.

“Same”

They don’t ask the obvious question and for that, Damien is grateful. The pack seems more curious than anything, even the wolf who won’t turn back. But they keep to their side of the room, huddled around a single hospital bed where another of their number lay still as a corpse, never leaving him alone. Damien used to have a pack like that.

From what little Russian he can scrounge up from the days he used to tease Chan about not being able to speak Mandarin, he learns that Rogachyov’s pack came to London because it was the closest. He doesn’t ask what it’s closest to.

“Hey Mikey, meet Sunny, Grumpy, Shirley and the guy in the corner.” Damien greets when Michael stops by looking like he’s been blindsided or dropped in a shark tank. Even Michael can’t miss the fact that they are in England’s only ward for wolves. They have noise cancelling devices, periodic sprays of lemon that makes him sneeze more than anything else. The only reason anyone comes up here is if they’re lost or are wolves in need of medical assistance.

To his credit, Michael simply grits his teeth and pulls up a chair by his bedside.

“Damien, heard you were awake.”

“Yep” Damien chirps, ignoring the Russian wolves. “Almost one-hundred percent so you can tell Kerry the good news.”

Michael swallows, startlingly vulnerable in that moment beneath four sets of lupine eyes.

“What did I say about the jokes about my wife?”

“That they get you through the day, I’m bread to your butter—throw me a bone buddy, tell me you’ve brought something. I can’t even jerk off in here, the doctors told me not to jerk off in here.” The other man’s eyes dart quickly from the other side of the room.

“Should have known you were an exhibitionist.” Michael says ruefully.

Damien grins. “To a ‘T’ buddy.”

Reluctantly, Michael slides an iPad in his lap and Damien lets out a whoop of delight. “Holy shit, you do love me!”

Michael shakes his head.

“I regret everything.”

 

Between his pack mates, Ruskie-four heals faster. Though there’s always someone keeping an eye on him, Yakov’s taken to sitting by his bedside as he recovers, shoving his cast obtrusively in his lap as though demanding a massage. He goes through disenfranchised stacks of Mad Magazine like it’s toilet paper, rubbing his jaws and making his lips ruddy. It’s ridiculous the eyelashes on him.

Kirill, he-who-refuses-to-chill-out, is developing a permanent crick in his ear.

The wolf is dark all over, maybe true black though it’s hard to tell under all the florescent lights. But what draws the eyes are the series of scars that stretch from his flanks to hock, hindquarters to the first bones of his tail. Weres don’t scar easy in either forms and he stares constantly to pass the time.

Yakov tells him to knock it off the second time Kirill lunges for him.

By the end of the week, they’re ready to leave and he feels a little overwrought. It’s stupid. It’s like being eight again and learning for the first time what ‘adopted’ means.

Their last night, Stefan takes watch and offers him smoke though he doesn’t light up himself. Damien rolls the cigarette suspiciously between his fingers. “It’s not poisoned is it?”

This elicits laughter.

“Believe me, if I wanted to kill you, you’d know.”

Damien believes that, strangely enough.

“Wouldn’t take much.” He grumbles.

Stefan stares at him thoughtfully.

“It should not be.”

“What?”

The blond man tilts his head towards where Yakov is resting, the red-haired she-wolf folded on top of him like a protective cover. Kirill is at their feet, his back brindled with tiger stripes. They’re all asleep but Damien can tell that they’re listening.

“You would not have to be alone.”

It takes several moments to come up with an appropriate response.

“Why?”

Stefan shrugs.

“We know you. You’re strong. I can’t imagine losing my pack like that but you survived.”

“With dumb luck.” God’s honest truth, if the security had been just a little lax, he would have hung himself the first chance.

“Sometimes, that’s all you need.” Stefan says solemnly.

Damien hesitates, cigarette swiftly turning into ash between his fingers.

“It’s kind of sudden. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course” Stefan replies, eyes warm. “Take all the time you need.

Damien frowns.

“Are you sure you’re Russian? Because I’ve got to tell you buddy, you’re not very convincing.”

The other wolf laughs in his face. “Didn’t you hear? The Cold War ended a long time ago.”

“Oh yeah?” He says wryly, waving a hand towards Kirill who uncurls himself with a great yawn, showing off his pointed teeth. “Comrade Cheburashka doesn’t seem to think so.” The others begin to stir, pouting at his answer. Stefan doesn’t seem particularly devastated.

“Hm? Oh that’s a good one, well done.”

A scrap of paper flutters into his lap.

“What’s this?”

“My number, if you ever want to talk. Don’t be a stranger.”

The she-wolf Natalya slips a gun beneath his pillow, Yakov gets him a knife. But clearly Kirill has the advantage because he has a skin mag clenched between his doggy jaws.

He is discharged soon after, the hole in his side nearly healed. And after a week with the Russian pack, he doesn’t like the idea of being alone, even if the orderly in charge of him is clearly wasted on changing bedpans.

Damien returns to the Section, picks up odds and ends like he’s never left, tracking down John Allen whom everyone suddenly has the hots for.

But if he thinks about it, that’s his fucking business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheburashka is a famous Russian cartoon character.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! It shouldn't be too long now.

Their bargaining chip is dead.

Hassani does not know, yet.

Less than thirty-six hours ago, a call had come in for a hostage swap. A bus filled with British nationals had been hijacked. Their price was the cousin of a well-known drug lord situated in Albania. Normally, Twenty wouldn’t touch this case. But one of the hostages on the list is John Allen—their only lead to Latif.

Despite the ensuing firefight, a dozen videos on Youtube and a nationwide coverage, Twenty barely manages to suppress the facts. The trade will take place with or without a body. Colonel Grant’s eyes are fierce as they cut from the screen to their guilty faces. Beside him, Kate stiffens uncomfortably. Michael knows the feeling very well.

Grant orders him to take Scott and Hansen and extract Allen by any means necessary. He can’t help the shiver that cracks against his spine.

Scott is in the showers by the time his latest conquest opens the door. She stares at him with her eyebrows crooked, brown eyes climbing down appreciatively as though she might like to get to know him a little better. Michael feels his nostrils flare as he suggests that she make herself scarce. The woman pouts and leaves.

The wolf knows that he's here. There is no way he would be standing if otherwise.

And while Scott sings loudly enough to be heard through several floors, Michael swiftly looks through the other man’s belongings. There are ticket stubs charging Twenty everything from boarding fees to a pair of sneakers that were definitely _not_ on the requisitions form. He learns that Scott is partial to fast food and fries, especially McDonalds. The box of condoms isn’t really a surprise though what he finds inside is.

There is a thick wad of postcards held together with a rubber band. He recognizes Stonehenge and every kind of tourist trap there is to be had in the world. The photography is good, almost professional. But these aren’t postcards. They are pictures from a bygone era.

In their line of work, the only reason for photos of real life, personal life, is if the people in them are dead. Scott does not feature in any of the photos but he recognizes several faces that appear like a collage through the differing locations. A lump in his throat, he tosses the pictures back in the gym bag.

Scott emerges from a flood of steam.

The lack of shame isn’t surprising. It’s a subterfuge for all the things he doesn’t want anyone to find out. But in spite of himself, Michael finds the wolf awfully, awfully predictable and he would have laughed, if he could, if Scott wasn’t a wolf.

“Had a good time I see.” Michael observes dryly when the other man flexes his neck and the purpling bite marks.

“Yeaaah buddy,” Scott winks, tossing on a shirt. “You should come join next time.”

“Did you remember to tip her?”

A punch is thrown.

Laughing, the wolf asks “so where are we going?”

 

"I heard you had a new pet."

“Scott, Hansen, Hansen, this is Scott.”

Scott and Hansen stare each other down. It’s a tense moment that has Kate biting her lips before the two wolves grin like they’ve come to an understanding.

“Kinda small aren’t you?”

“Size isn’t important." Hansen replies, eyes half-mast like Scott is beneath him. "It’s what you do with it that matters.”

Their teeth, blunted by their humanness, are still very shiny in their gums and any sane man would have run in the opposite direction or at least leashed the wankers so they wouldn’t have a go at each other the moment his back was turned. But he was just a grunt, a soldier, what did he possibly know of wolf husbandry?

"We're on the clock people." Kate says impatiently though her gaze flickers from one wolf to the next. "Wrap it up."

Hansen turns away first.

"Sounds like fun."

Michael grits his teeth and suits up as their dogs of war get special gear of their own. During a brief lull as Kate gives Hansen a rundown of what to expect, he grabs Scott and pulls him into a corner.

“What was that?”

"Don't worry about it."  Scott says easily.

"Scott, is this going to be a problem?"

There should be a rule about wolves and their teeth.

"Of course not."

 

Rana is dead so they make do.

Hansen, the smallest of the three, plays the part of the decoy under Scott's tender mercies. If anything goes wrong, if Hassani figures out the ruse before the wolves can get close, they'll all be dead.

Michael slithers down the tall grass as Scott greets their contact. Despite the song and dance about having a good time, the other man is a consumate professional, direct but courteous, expressing measured delight at hearing another American accent.

He's read the files, knows that Scott's pack of four was doomed the moment he, the alpha, was pulled from the field. Scott serves as a poster child for the DADT bollocks and he wonders what secret could have possibly been worth the lives of four- _five_ very well-trained field dogs.

Provided Scott was telling the truth of course. There was no proof after all.

But it is very telling that Scott functions at all after the slaughter. Often, men like him are driven by revenge. Latif is the focus of that revenge and for now, that is to the Twenty's advantage. He tries not to think about when this is all over.

Thankfully, the handoff isn't too far away. But there is no easy way for a land-vehicle to drive through the green foliage. 

Michael makes good time. He is resigned to a long wait. Through his scope, he sees a carved out valley as though the earth has been plowed with an ice cream scoop. This is where the trade will take place; this is where the men and women cower in a ring behind their captors.

Scott and Hansen are too exposed.

Predictably, the exchange does not go well.

Hassani is quite clever for a greasy drug lord. He uncovers their deception far too soon and there are bullets flying through the air as Scott herds the hostages into his jeep.

Hansen wolfs-out, slipping his hood and his collar, making a smaller target even through his scope and terrifying the civilians because they obviously aren’t enough. Dissembling his rifle, he slides down the hill to the rendezvous point where Scott sits waiting, back tense and eyes glowing as though he too is about to shift.

Michael prays that he doesn’t. One wolf is enough for his frazzled nerves.

He keeps half an eye on Allen as they drive haphazardously through the trees. All throughout, the bespecled man doesn’t so much as flinch.

No one answers their calls. They make it back to the clearing but there is no one there. Twenty is just as confused, asks them to standby in a field too exposed on all sides.

 _Americans_ —Hansen spits, shifting back to his human form and Scott immediately gets into his face, staring down the smaller man which has their hostages all but throwing themselves out of the jeep. 

John Allen, Michael is pleased to note, pales considerably at the sight.

He knows Scott too is a wolf.

Michael splits them apart, has to if he doesn't want a bloodbath on his hands. A hand on his elbow is enough to calm Scott. Hansen settles a while later, dragging a spare uniform from beneath the car seat. 

He swallows a breath and tries to reassess the situation.

Their mission is to get Allen. As tragic as it maybe, Twenty has no further interests in others. But he can't in good conscious leave four civilians behind. Hansen is sullen but agrees when Scott lifts his lips. 

It's obvious that Scott doesn't like Hansen. They take turns antagonizing each other in the pettiest of ways. Michael would roll his eyes if he hadn't been secretly terrified. Between making sure that the two wolves don't run off and John Allen, his eyeballs are at a constant risk of falling out of their sockets.

"Something smells." Scott complains under his breath. 

"Maybe you should take a bath." Hansen quips nastily.

Michael  retreats to the back and strikes up a conversation with the nice old lady about Hydrangeas. 

"He isn't dangerous is he?" Mrs. Heath asks when the well of his knowledge dries up. 

"Err..." 

Even after so many years, the fear of wolves is a constant. It could just be his imagination, but he sees Scott's shoulders slump a little. Hansen doesn't bother to take notice, skin a little thicker from being an English wolf. But Michael twitches a little every time he sees a flicker of grey hair at the edge of his vision. 

Twenty directs them to a run-down building at the edge of the woods. It is heavily guarded, something more than a simple concrete block. Eager to get away, Scott volunteers to take point. Michael cuts him off. There's only so much that traumatized civilians can take. Besides, he needs the other man _with_ thumbs.

He tries not to worry about Hansen when they send him in alone. They peer through the glass, see people moving just beyond the door. 

Scott sneezes, a quick whuff that puts a strange look on his face.

An explosion makes the ground shudder.

That is their cue. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The whole of UK dislikes werewolves in general because of their historic connotations and the fact that the remnant population was wiped out/escaped to mainland early on. Lycanthropy is a recessive trait so sometimes, wolves do occur within the population. They're usually adopted out.
> 
> Elsewhere, wolves are considered vital component in a military.


End file.
